A case of curiosities (8 page)

"To ask me for cinnamon is like asking a butcher simply for meat," Henri said. "What kind of cinnamon? At least tell me if you want dried quills, stoneground powder, or paste."

Flustered by the choices, the woman accepted some Ceylonese quills and departed quickly. "The cook," Henri said by way of explanation, and clearly a cook in a hurry. She was passed at the door by the Abbe.

"Thank you, Henri," the Abbe said, "I will take over from here." Claude was relieved. He had had his fill of store talk, and the combinations of tastings had given his stomach some trouble. The Abbe ditected Claude to a room dominated by heavily bolted doots that wete teinfotced with a tusted padlock. "You have been shown much but not all. The one spot where I do not wish you to venture is behind these ancient chapel doors. It is my inner sanctum, or, to use the language of conchology, my chamber of conception." His finger gyred in ever-widening rings. "Rumor will ascribe all manner of activity to the chapel. Ignore the rumor. Remember only that you are not to enter. Behind it, I have been known to rage." The Abbe's tone lightened as he took Claude's arm. "I hope that Henri was methodical in his tour."

Claude struggled for the right words. "It was no tour, sir." He was tempted to say "Caliph" but denied himself this excess. "It was a journey."

"No," the Abbe replied. "The vizier's journey has yet to begin."

CLAUDE WAS CORRECT about the grease marks and the blood. They did indeed connect the great hall to the kitchen, a room hung with baskets of vegetables, cuts of cured meat, and utensils of copper, tin, and iron. The kitchen was dominated by a large squat stove and the large squat cook who moved around it.

Marie-Louise, the woman who had accepted the Ceylonese cinnamon quills from Henri earlier in the day, did not notice Claude's entrance. She was much too involved in the preparation of three dishes, each of which appeared to require her full attention. She lifted a lid and tasted and shook her head. She moved to and from the spice box. She added salt and ground nutmeg—the Abbe liked nutmeg—and tasted again. She added a pinch more, tasted, and finally nodded approvingly.

By way of counterpoint to the culinary frenzy of Marie-Louise sat Catherine Kinderklapper. She was the mansion-house scullion and general chambriere. This last word can be clumsily defined as "maid-of-all-work." But "maid-of-»0-work" would be closer to the mark. She was a person of the poorer classes, from outside Zurich, whose head was so curiously shaped that it was included in Lavater's Essays on Physiognomy. (The seventeenth English edition, illustrated with upward of four hundred profiles.) For Claude, however, who was ignorant of the facial sciences, Catherine was the woman with the feet. (Marie-Louise had feet, too, but Claude hadn't noticed them.)

Catherine and Marie-Louise toiled in tandem. In tandem, but not equally. The cook moved around ceaselessly. She kept busy throughout the day, baking and tasting, stewing and tasting, roasting and tasting, basting and tasting, slicing and dicing. And tasting. Hence her squatness. The scullion was, to use a culinary metaphor that brings together the tasks of the two women, a different kettle of fish. The pot scrubber picked up and distributed bits of gossip, pursued amorous engagements where she could find them, and left cauldrons and marmites to rust. Were it not for the cook's insistence that the larger cook-ware remain "seasoned," that is to say unwashed, Catherine would never have been able to maintain her indolence. The accountant suggested repeatedly that the Abbe replace her, but the cook's energetic protests made such expulsion impossible. Marie-Louise was a natif; Catherine, a Catholic. Marie-Louise was plumped up by an unyielding commitment to her art; Catherine was distinctly slender. The two kitchen servants loved each other dearly. The cook, in rushing around as she did, made the scullion thankful for the work she did not have to perform. And the scullion, in pursuing her warm-footed sloth, allowed the cook to imagine she ran the entire mansion house, which, in fact, she did. The one defined the other.

When Marie-Louise finally came down from high boil, she had a chance to welcome Claude, which she did by hugging him tightly, transferring a bit of perspiration from her cheek to his. Catherine did not add her own embracements. She kept such shared gestures, frequent as they were, private. This was probably just as well. She was wearing a printed apron so tightly wrapped around her ample chest that the cotton's tensile strength was sorely tested. Claude marveled at the design. "The Abbe chose it," she said. "Brought it from Geneva."

Despite the differences in the way the two women greeted Claude, they were in agreement that his arrival was a good thing. The nine-fingered Pencil Boy, while not producing the excitement that had attended the installation of the lightning pole or the pleasure that came with a shipment of island sugar, would undoubtedly add a certain electrifying sweetness to the mansion house. He would release the Abbe from bouts of melancholy, nights when the rest of the servants heard their master, through the chapel doors, shout and play mournful music with a companion he did not admit to having. The boy's arrival, in more practical terms, meant that Marie-Louise could fill a new mouth and Catherine could fill a new ear. The pot scrubber did just that moments after he came into the kitchen.

"Let me tell you," Catherine said, "that you should not go bringing up the Church in front of the Abbe." She didn't wait for a why-is-that. "He will not tolerate any religious reference. Ask Henri." Henri, present but silent in the corner, said nothing. "Ask Kleinhoff. Tell him, Kleinhoff. Tell him about the pears!" Like Henri, Kleinhoff the gardener preferred to let Catherine explain.

"Well," she said, "if they will not tell you, I guess I must. The Abbe won't allow Henri to keep colors with religious names. Same with Kleinhoff. He can't grow magdalenes, though bastard musks are fine. So are the great blankets and the orangemusks he gives out on session day. But absolutely no church pears. Why? No one knows the real reasons for the hate. The Abbe is a man of secrets, that much he will tell you himself. He's not to blame completely for the problems on the property. The accountant controls the purse. No appreciation for the work we do here." Marie-Louise ran between the pots and the table. Catherine continued her banter. "Can you believe how much is expected by that accountant? Never lets us have a moment's rest. Look at Marie-Louise. The poor thing. Shocking. If the accountant allowed a new apprentice to move in, he must have extracted all sorts of promises from the master. You know why you are here, of course. It is the Hours of Love."

"Quiet yourself," Kleinhoff finally said, protectively. "The boy will find out about that when he is supposed to find out. And from the Abbe, not you." The gardener turned to Claude. "Perhaps I should tell you what the Abbe says about these two women. He says that Marie-Louise provides the ragout, while the other one provides the ragot, the gossip of the mansion house." There was a general round of laughter as Marie-Louise arranged the common pewter and announced the evening meal.

That night, when Claude's head touched the pillow—a stuffed onion sack that was substantially softer than what he had known at home—he sketched through the events of the day: the Abbe's talk, the tour of the stores, the printed calico dragons with tongues of flame that ran across Catherine's substantial chest. He called up the supper, spoonful by spoonful. He had accepted two servings of a cinnamon-laced boar's head soup, accompanied by less exotic helpings of haricots and peas. He had been amazed to learn from the Abbe that the bristles of the boar were kept for brushes, its teeth for grinding polish. The tongue was tougher than beef, but Claude ate it happily. Having grown up on mountain spinach, pinecones, and potages made from primrose and nettles, he found the mansion-house supper was wonderfully bourgeois. Claude kept quiet during that first meal, until he asked innocently, "How can you tell if you are tasting the tongue or the tongue is tasting you?" The Abbe responded with a diluted Aristotelian inquiry on the senses. The Abbe's exotic answer brought Claude closer to his teacher. Now, as he closed his eyes and tried to sleep, he recognized a newfound feeling, or, at least, one that had long been suppressed. He felt a deep attachment to the Abbe that recalled the distant memories of his father. He wondered about the nature of his ties to the Abbe. As Claude drifted into sleep, other, more practical questions lingered. What would the Abbe have him do? And what were the Hours of Love?

The logic went as follows: Henri's knowledge of the pigments and Claude's imagination, individually, could not produce much of value. But if brought together, the capacities of the colorist and the draftsman could provide the mansion house with much-needed income. It would be a convergence of technical competence and a very keen eye.

Enamel had a long history of such partnerships, the Abbe had pointed out to the accountant to justify the expense of btinging Claude in. The teams of Hance and de Gueniet, and — closet to Toumay — Petitot and Botdier, had gteatly advanced the aft of glass painting. (Zink was a singulat exception, but he was a Swede, and you can't compate a Swede to his Continental countetpatts.) Claude and Henti would follow the part-neted ttadition and in time would work profitably on the Hours of Love.

This teasoning, appatently, convinced the accountant. As the financial ovetseet of the mansion house, he authorized the Abbe's scheme. What did this mean fot Claude? Ptincipally, that access to attists' supplies was augmented. To the crimson-tibboned sketch foldet the Abbe added what he called "the necessaries." A shop tecotd from Cherion, a competitot to Didiet & Sons (fotmetly Robett & Didiet), tegistets the Abbe's unique notion of necessity: 2 sets of Conte ctayons in walnut boxes; 2 teams each of the following papets: post, white wove, yellow, blue, brown, glazed, and ttacing; 3 tablets each of fine catmine, minetal blue, bladdet gteen, and gamboge; 2 bottles of san-datac; 2 magnifying glasses; 1 etasing knife; 1 fully stocked writing desk; 12 red chalks; 24 black-lead pencils "that write like velvet"; 1 set square; 2 whetstones; 1 clasp knife; 1 pumice stone.

The staff at Cherion must indeed have been pleased when, not two months later, anothet order came, this one for: 5 Lyon brushes; 10 wash brushes (with handles in five woods); 2 badger-hair brushes; 2 palettes (one in walnut, the othet in ivory); 2 horn knives; 3 bottles India rubber; 1 handrest; 1 copying mirror; 2 sunshades; 1 pair French curves; 1 bottle poppyseed oil; 1 box cardboards; 1 folding easel; a selection of sable brushes in all available sizes, four to be mounted in tinplate holders.

Accompanying the shipment was a handbook titled The Art of the Miniature World. From it Claude had hoped to acquire principles of symmetry and perspective. He did not. Still, he liked the title and adapted it for a selection of drawings done during his first days with the Abbe. Mansion House Miniatures,he called them. In the space of three weeks, he worked up some comic portraits of Catherine, her breasts aflame, Marie-Louise competing with the rotundity of the cauldrons she stirred, Kleinhoff tending his pears. He drew the alcoves and the coffin-confessional and many, many sketches of the Abbe, imbuing each with an adoration he did not fully recognize. He had plenty of time to draw, since he was dependent on the Slug to prepare materials before enameling could begin. And the Slug, of course, was slow. What he lacked in zest, however, he supplied in perseverance.

Few books described precisely the methods of grinding colors or the means of compensating for different climatic conditions. Proportions had to be modified to accommodate the Tournay air. So Henri set about, by trial and error, mixing the colors Claude required. He would grind away for hours. He blended the spike oil in the agate mortar, giving the room a pleasant smell of lavender. With the wine lees he had scratched from the inside of the workshop barrels, he would cleanse the copper that the Abbe said was "purer than an ugly nun." Then, using little tweezers, he would fill the reverberatory kiln with the finger-sized sticks of ilex received on session day. He even tested various methods of stacking the wood. Using spatula and toothpick, he would apply couch after couch of white base to the copper, enameling and counterenameling in preparation for the designs. Finally, the Slug's grinding and cooking would end and Claude could, newly returned from some sanctioned adventure, fulfill his part of the collaboration.

Enameling was a delicate business, Claude soon discovered. Sometimes he would not get any farther than the outline in red vitriol before some catastrophic inelegance would force him to start again. Other times, pleased with the design, he would paint and heat the colors only to see his work bubble and blister, craze and crack. The possibilities for misjudgment were enormous. Even after Henri came up with a formula that avoided crusts and pits — he cut back on the spike—mistakes were inevitable. A slight unevenness in the heating would cause deep fissures in the surface. More than one portrait emerged pus-tuled. Once, Claude placed the enamel back in the kiln before it had properly taken, and watched helplessly as parts of the picture disappeared forever, leaving ghosts of an afternoon's labor, nothing but hands and feet. Another time a full week's worth of work was mysteriously destroyed when Henri came close to the pieces during cooling. The Abbe informed them, with a laugh, "It is the garlic on your breath that is changing the colots." Aftet that, Henti and Claude wete not allowed to eat Marie-Louise's casseroles when preparing the white enamel couch.

Over time, the Slug and the Pencil Boy learned which colors to leave to the final firing, which colors were sturdy, which were temperamental. Over time, mistakes diminished and technique improved. They demonstrated a patience worthy of Petitot and Bordier.

The Abbe, however, did not. Too often he would say, "Let Henri test the waters and mix the colors, Claude. Come now, with me."

"But what of the accountant?" Claude replied. Dereliction worried him.

The Abbe just sneezed and said, "Come. Come."

IT TOOK A long and languid summer for Claude to fall into the patterns of the Abbe's life: the sneezes, the chaos, the odd hours, the absence of any formal pedagogy, the ribald humor, but also the bursts of experimental rigor, the late-night jags of insight, and all the endless musings. Claude was kept breathless and confused by work that had him splitting his time between the enameling alcove and the environs of the mansion house, between experimentation and education, between unquestioning support for the Caliph and the doubts that all young viziers must have.